Soundless
by StupidityNowOffersWisdom
Summary: Sometimes she speaks, sometimes she doesn't, because she knows he will. Beeress/Team Nerds oneshot.


**Soundless**  
_Sometimes she speaks, sometimes she doesn't,  
Because she knows he will._

Her Games leave her wounded, broken, floating in the thin in-between of consciousness and not. She doesn't want to know how many she killed, how she killed, and why she's still alive. But he does. he knows every single little thing about her in that Arena, and he knows just what it feels, to stop feeling, to stop caring, and to simply break - just like a fatal breakdown in the factories back in Three.

The Capitol doctors deem her imminent recovery a slow and painful one, and he feels, somehow, obligated and wanting to heal her. He doesn't know if this is just mere attraction, or just completing his job as her Mentor. He thinks it's the former, but logic dictates otherwise, because, isn't this so so _so_ wrong? Absolutely no Mentor is to (are they not?) have _such_ feelings for their Tributes, are they?

Regardless, he is there by her bedside, every waking moment he can spare, while she remains trapped in her coma. _Two months_, he reminds himself. Two months before they're whisked away for her Victory Tour, two months before she has to confront the families and friends and Districts of those Tributes killed by both her and the others. Two months to rehabilitate her into being able to present herself as a seemingly normal girl, killer or not.

But he knows, she will never be a killer in his eyes, for he, too, has done the exact same thing. To survive. Survive. Now she must survive the torture the Capitol will subject her to.

* * *

She awakens, slightly under a fortnight of her victory in the Arena, and the Capitol sends them packing back to District Three with instructions and a thick booklet to get her walking and talking for her Victory Tour, and he wonders, briefly, if they're sick of treating a broken Victor, or if they really can't be bothered to spend any more than necessary on non-Capitolites. He dismisses the thought, and sees to it she's comfortable on the journey back to the familiar airs of smog and smoke.

* * *

She requests, brokenly, that he stays with her in the night, and he does; her constant to the ever-changing variables of her life. After all, in this mad game of the Capitol's, the only person who knows both her and the horrors they might be subject to is him. After all, they weren't just Mentor and Tribute. They were much more. So much more. Mentor and internee of the Engineering Academy. Beetee and Wiress of District Twelve. They were themselves. They were victims, playthings, of the horrible, horrible Capitol.

And he wonders, as he strokes her curls as she drifts into slumber, if they would've ended up like this, without the Games' interference. he decides, no. It is wrong, so very wrong, for them to bring themselves closer to each other, given their age and status. And of course, the Capitol would twist something so pure into delusional scandals, lies and sex. She doesn't really care or understand, though, because _he_ is _her constant_, and makes all the more effort to avoid Eustacia, their absolutely despicable escort, and her half-witted attempts to 'cure' her of her broken mind with mindless screeching and droning about appearances, how supposedly disgusting District life is, and more; and spends nearly every moment in his calming, soothing presence. and of course, he doesn't mind her, but he hesitates letting his feelings show. She doesn't, and each lingering touch she leaves on his skin, and each time she collapses into his arms drives him closer to breaking point and he worries about the repercussions if they were ever to enter a relationship together.

* * *

Her house in the Victor's Village feels empty and devoid of warmth (it was and will never be a home - the Capitol has seen to that), despite her family moving in with her, and she - surprisingly - requests that she move in with him. Her excuse, that he was the one who was instructed by the Capitol's doctors, could carry out her physiotherapy properly, manages to fool her everyone but him. He agrees, nevertheless, but worries if he'll ever lose control and even take advantage of her. Surprising, how hormones can still drive a grown man insane. Even more so, as her back presses against him, and they drift into slumber, limbs entangled in a calming embrace, each haunted by their own Games.

They do not wake to scream.

* * *

They progress, step by step, and she finds her limbs again, throughout the course of her physiotherapy. After all, her final stunt in that accursed Arena almost, just almost, destroyed her nervous system and rendered her a permanent vegetable. and he would never, never, be able to live with that.

Her voice, however, takes longer to return, and she can't seem to form her sentences coherently. Eustacia ceaselessly _voices_ her frustration on the matter and how it'll ruin their, well, her, reputation by having a victor who isn't _normal_ - but what _is_ 'normal'?

She improves, slowly, and in a month, her sentences are almost okay. she speaks the first half, and he finishes for her. That is enough, for now, he deems, for soon, they have to leave for her Victory Tour, and though Eustacia will never grant them the serenity to continue their efforts in repairing their brokenness, the airheaded escort will grant her a script. Victors, are, of course, not to add too personal a touch to their speeches, for the Capitol never ceases to fear a possible uprising from the hidden messages the victors might dare embed in their speeches.

It's not like she has anything to say, anyway. Because words have less meaning to her than before, and only he understands the numbers.

* * *

Their first stop is District Twelve.

Every practiced line comes out hoarse and she's on the verge of crying, apologising, and simply giving up.

She somehow manages to pull through, but her voice doesn't come when she voices the last sentence. She cannot. She panics, and wonders if a song might compensate for her lack of voice, but thinks otherwise.

_Thank you for your hospitality in hosting me for the tour, and for the courage Minah and Vendel never failed to show in the Arena._

And their deaths will haunt her for eternity. The deaths of two shivering, terrified children. Two children, too young, to die in the Bloodbath surrounding the Cornucopia.

Two children, whose faces continue to appear on those of her siblings, Watte and Catala.

Her speech is marked by her soundless voice, and the tears that threaten to pour down her face as the Peacekeepers thrust her back into the Justice Building, into his calming embrace.

She collapses against his chest, sobbing for all she's worth - she can't go on, because she knows, if her reaction is already so bad, in front of the tributes' Districts and families, how _will_ she react in front of those _she_ killed?

* * *

Her speech in District Eleven is no better.

Her words, as much as they have been loyal to Eustacia's script, come out lisping or too quiet or too badly pronounced to be understood. She just wants to cry and get out of sight. Even so, she finishes the text on the paper card, and tries to nod respectfully to the crowd. Her nod can barely be seen, and her speech is a garbled mess and she doesn't stop crying even after she returns to the train to be dolled up for the District dinner.

That night, she doesn't feel, for the Tributes' faces refuse to leave her sight, and her pillow is a soggy mess by morn. And all he can do is to hold her close and whisper sweet nothings that fall on deaf ears.

* * *

The days that follow the speeches for Districts Ten, Nine, Eight and Seven are better than her mental breakdown after District Eleven, but District Six is the worst yet. Because the Six Tributes were friends - allies - human.

She cannot speak at all, in front of the eyes that bore into her thin frame. She doesn't know what to do, what to say, and how to react in front of her Alliance's District and families. Her Alliance with Six (and Twelve, had they survived the Bloodbath) was brief, for the Careers were actively hunting them, and had taken down the sole fighter of the little group. She and Edna, the female Tribute from District Six, had barely escaped, but Edna had fallen to protect her from the Careers' second attack.

Edna's death had set the Final Eight in stone, having been the ninth last to fall victim to the death within the Arena.

She trembles, but lifts her hand to her lips, before moving them back into the air, index finger joined to the middle, with her ring finger joined to her pinky. And that is all she can do, and she wonders, if actions truly are greater than words. It is District Three's farewell sign, and the Peacekeepers grab her roughly, and throw her against the inner walls of the Justice Building, hissing threats and curses.

After all, how dare she salute the fallen Tributes so openly? How dare she salute the very cause the Capitol tries so hard to suppress?

That night, she cries herself to sleep, and even he cannot help her, no matter how much he tries.

* * *

The visits to the remaining Districts and the Capitol pass numbly, and she finds, by the time she returns to District Three, she has no more tears left to cry, and no more things left to say.

And it seems, they have returned to square one in regards to her speech rehabilitation.

* * *

He tries, and tries again, to coax her to speak, but she doesn't - she can't. It's almost, almost, as if she's given up. He stops trying, after awhile, and they return to communicating in numbers, equations, diagrams and kisses, and that's good enough.

He doesn't need her to reopen old wounds.

* * *

It is at least a few years, before she can speak coherently again, but she never does finish her sentences while Mentoring. At home, she can still speak, hum, and even sing in their workshop, but the moment Reaping Day comes, her world falls silent.

Because each Tribute's death, regardless if it comes from District Three or not, kills her, bit by bit, every single time.

* * *

Their years together fly swiftly, like that one Mockingjay in the last ever recorded District Thirteen footage, and the danger of the third Quarter Quell dawns upon them.

And the moment Snow closes, then reopens his mouth after explaining the special feature of the third Quell to wish Panem a _happy Hunger Games_, they know they are doomed.

* * *

Johanna ceaselessly mocks the both of them, Nuts and Volts (he thinks it's actually cute, if it weren't for the others' mocking usage of the nicknames), but they both spare her no attention, reworking their feel of fire-making, of which District Three is notoriously horrendous at.

The Mockingjay approaches them later, and attempts to be conversational, but fails, in both her awkwardness around the other Victors, and Johanna's reappearance to introduce the two of them as Nuts and Volts. The three look around in heavy silence, moments after the axe-wielder moves on, before Katniss tries, again, to pick up the conversation.

They introduce themselves, but of course, he always needs to finish her sentences for her.

She can speak, of course, but the Games always leave her almost mute.

But maybe, maybe. She's gotten so used to his speaking for her, she just lets him, because she knows he will, no matter what.

* * *

And like her first District Token, her second is a ring. A much, different ring - not the carelessly soldered bit of wire of her childhood, but the beautiful, elegant wedding band that binds their love together.

Beetee and Wiress. The two of them. They are survivors in this broken world.

* * *

**A/N:** I'm not sure how this came out, to be honest. I love Beeress more than Everlark, for some reason, and well, here's my first HG fic, in honour of our favourite Team Nerds. I'm sure I've missed out a lot of relationship development and the like, but I did want to keep to my creative limit of two thousand words.


End file.
